Sullivan pulled out his tablet, scrolling to something."Your last public exchange with Mr.Paulson was three weeks ago.He wrote—" He paused, reading from the screen."'You'll get what's coming to you, Lang.I'll make sure of it.'Care to comment on that?"
"He was threatening to sue me.Again.Over my gallery show."Lang gestured at the photographs surrounding them."This exhibition has been planned for months.When Paulson found out I'd be featuring winter landscapes of the North Shore—his supposed specialty—he lost what was left of his mind.Started sending emails, calling the gallery, posting online about how I was 'stealing his vision.'"The air quotes were audible."The man was unhinged."
"And how did you respond to those threats?"
Lang's expression cooled."I ignored them.Like I always did.Paulson could threaten and posture all he wanted—it didn't change the fact that my work is original and his was derivative.I wasn't going to let a talentless hack dictate my artistic choices."
Isla let another beat of silence pass, watching Lang's face, cataloging the micro-expressions that flickered beneath his practiced composure.The contempt was genuine—years of accumulated resentment compressed into every word.But there was something else there too, something harder to read.Fear?Relief?The particular flatness of someone who'd been expecting this conversation and had prepared for it?
"Mr.Lang," she said, keeping her voice even, "where were you this morning between four and seven AM?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.Lang's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a tiny crack in the facade.
"I was out scouting locations," he said."For the next phase of the exhibition.I left my apartment around four-thirty and drove north along the shore."
"Alone?"
"That's generally how I work, Agent Rivers.The creative process doesn't benefit from audience participation."
"Can anyone verify your whereabouts?Did you stop for gas, talk to anyone, take any photographs with timestamps?"
Lang's composure flickered again—a momentary uncertainty that he masked with studied indifference."I didn't find anything worth shooting.The light wasn't cooperating.I drove around for a few hours, then came back here to open the studio."He paused."I'm sure there are traffic cameras somewhere along my route, if you need to verify."
It was a weak alibi and they both knew it.Driving alone for hours, no witnesses, no documentation, returning just in time to "discover" that his bitter rival had been murdered at a location Lang himself had photographed dozens of times.
Isla could feel Sullivan's tension beside her, the restrained energy of a partner who wanted to push harder, dig deeper, find the crack that would split this polished facade wide open.But they didn't have enough.Lang's animosity wasn't evidence.His weak alibi wasn't proof.Being a smug, contemptuous asshole wasn't actually a crime, no matter how satisfying it would be to treat it as one.
"You photographed Hawk Ridge frequently," Isla said."The overlook where Mr.Paulson was found.You've posted images from that exact location multiple times."
"It's a popular spot.Beautiful views."Lang's voice had steadied, the momentary uncertainty replaced by careful neutrality."Lots of photographers use it.Paulson himself probably shot there dozens of times—when he wasn't busy recreating other people's work, of course."
"Did you know he'd be there this morning?"
The question landed like a stone in still water.Lang went very still, his eyes locking onto Isla's with an intensity that felt almost predatory.
"No," he said slowly."How would I know where Paulson was planning to shoot?"
"The same way you apparently tracked his locations for years.The same way he accused you of following him."
"I never followed him anywhere."Lang's voice had dropped, gone cold and flat."Those were his paranoid delusions, not reality.I don't know where he got the idea that I was stalking him, but it was pure fantasy."
"So you didn't track his social media?Didn't monitor his upcoming shoots?Didn't happen to show up at locations he'd announced he would be photographing?"
"I followed his account, like any photographer keeps track of competitors.That's called being professionally aware, not stalking."Lang uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his composure finally cracking around the edges."I didn't kill Derek Paulson.I didn't like him, I didn't respect him, and I won't pretend to mourn him.But I would never harm a fellow photographer, no matter how much I despised their ethics or their work."
"Why not?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard."What?"
"You clearly have strong feelings about Mr.Paulson.Years of accumulated resentment.He threatened you publicly, accused you of theft, tried to sabotage your career."Isla kept her voice measured, almost conversational."A lot of people might consider that sufficient motivation."
"For murder?"Lang shook his head, something like incredulity flickering across his features."You don't understand how this world works, Agent Rivers.The photography community is small.Everyone knows everyone, talks to everyone.If I killed every rival who annoyed me, there wouldn't be anyone left to compete against."He paused."Besides, Paulson was destroying himself without any help from me.His obsession with me had become his whole identity.Another year or two and he would have alienated everyone in the industry.I just had to wait."
It was a callous statement, delivered with the casual cruelty of someone who had clearly spent time thinking about his rival's potential downfall.But Isla had to admit there was a certain twisted logic to it.Why risk everything by committing murder when time and patience might accomplish the same goal?
Unless time and patience had run out.Unless Paulson's threats had escalated beyond public posturing.Unless something had changed the equation in ways Lang wasn't willing to share.
"We'll need a list of your movements this morning," Isla said, rising from her chair."Specific times, specific locations.And we'll be looking at those traffic cameras you mentioned."